The paper taunts me
it knows my weakness
it knows how I cannot sleep
with it calling to me.
No matter how many rooms and doors I put between us
relentlessly it summons
even as I crumple its blankness with my tear-damp hands.
This is no gentled muse of poetic guidings and inspiration
but a sharp and swift paper cut,
a shouting driven banshee demanding everything,
even to the last drop…
And I give in,
scratching the words and watching as my pen drips crimson
then carefully blot it with my heart.